


Bloody Madness

by Bladespeaker



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: (I have so many alts please help), Bloody Madness, Burnt Cactus, Dinner, F/M, FOR ONCE A FICTION USING ALTS AND NOT THE COMMANDER, Halloween, Knives, Sylvari (Guild Wars), crackship, firestonewritesstuff, in which the latter is about to be very proven, possible cannibalism mention?? these guys are nuts do not invite them to dinner, so much crackship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-13 11:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21243095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bladespeaker/pseuds/Bladespeaker
Summary: Sylfia Wyldcaller has had many ideas throughout her life.  Not all of them are quite sane, especially if they concern her psychotic sister, the charming yet murderous Nettle Viridia.  But for this scheme, insanity may be just what they all need....





	1. A Mad Idea

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Traveling Circus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18921094) by [Bladespeaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bladespeaker/pseuds/Bladespeaker). 

There was no way, no how, that any of this was going to work. Myrie knew it was a bad idea from the moment she saw her friend, Sylfia Wyldcaller, come careening precariously around a corner while babbling about it, and she still wasn’t quite sure how the red-skinned sylvari had managed to yank her away from her jewel-smithing station into a rickety barstool to convince her to sit for a moment while she re-gathered her thoughts and attempted to say them again.

“It’ll be great!” The light in the warrior’s eyes probably wasn’t helped by any of the absinthe she had managed to guzzle in the ten seconds she’d found out about it. She popped another thin cork and upended the glowing brew into her mug. “Hear me out just one more time: if this works, we don’t need to worry about Nettle shanking anyone outright for at least another year; she’s out of our hair, possibly happy, and the greater world of Tyria will owe us a debt!”

Myrie stared dumbfounded at her. “Sylfia. You’ve got to realize that you just completely avoided the topic of _who_ the unfortunate soul is that you’re planning on trying to set Nettle up with is. Again.” 

“Well, you’re not entirely wrong about the soul-y bit,” She gave a wink that wasn’t as sly as she’d hoped. “He ain’t exactly… _living.”  
_

Myrie’s eyes widened in mock realization. “I knew it,” she declared, smacking her hands on the table. “You’re trying to set her up with Adam!”

Sylfia’s nose wrinkled. “Ew, what? Her _skull?! _No! What the bloody _blight_ gave you that idea?”

Myrie rolled her eyes. “We don’t know anyone/thing else that’s dead that she could possibly have an actual _interest_ in, you absolute cabbage,” she huffed. “Unless you’ve been researching some of the more archaic histories while nobody’s been looking.”

The sylvari’s smile widened as she reached into her pack and dropped an overlarge tome on the table, sending up a billowing cloud of dust. Myrie coughed and attempted to wave the plume aside as she squinted down at the cover, which was emblazoned with the flaming pumpkin symbol of the Mad King Thorn. 

“I can’t believe you’re actually reading a history book on Tyria’s most infamous pumpkin-headed monarch,” the thief said, looking from the cover to the warrior. “But please tell me you’re not trying to set up Nettle with the _Mad King.”   
_

_ “_Oh, please.” Sylfia reached an arm over the massive book and thumped it open. “I know Oi’m no genius, but I ain’t stupid.”

Myrie leaned back and rubbed her temples. “Good. I’m not sure how many pumpkin-carving jokes she could take before taking her own blades to his headpiece. So who…?”

“Shaddap and lissen. Mad King Thorn had lots of wives, yeah? Kind of known for killing them in varied ways, right? I mean, it’s really impressive that he’d got so many of them to agree to stay with him for _any_ length of time – ”

“_Sylfia.”_

“Oi’m _getting _there! Thorn actually did manage to have a kid. I mean, one that survived at least to adulthood. Guy’s name was Edrick Thorn – or Edrick the Bloody, as he preferred to be called. Ended up trying to lead a semi-successful coup to take over his father’s throne, not that his own murderous tendencies were any better. It didn’t work; he got imprisoned for it and bit out his guards’ tongues to keep them from telling on him when he escaped. Got to give him props for stubbornness, though – he tried it again and ended up failing so badly that Thorn stuffed him in a box filled with candy corn and sealed him in some sector of the Underworld.”

Myrie set her head on the table. “I’m guessing that explains the whining arguments I try ignoring whenever I head into the Mad King’s Labyrinth.”

Sylfia laughed. “Why ignore it? I think it’s hilarious!” She gave a calculating grin as she closed the book. “But yeah, good thing about both Thorns is that neither of them’ve got enough power to break from the Mad Realm except for on Halloween, and Nettle’s just curious enough about the season that, if we play our cards right…”

“No. Oh _no.”   
_

“Why not? It’d be a year! A whole year! One woman, removed but not dead from Tyria, no longer being a menace or headache on the Pact or any of its sub-divisions’ heads for all but _one day_ of the year when she might be able to do a certain amount of damage that will, by most means, be _manageable!”  
_

“Sylfia, you just said that Edrick Thorn is also a _murderous psychopath! _How on the world do you think this is going to be a good idea?! What if they team up?”

The warrior grinned, orange pulsing through her veins as she upended her tankard one more time into her mouth. “Oi’m _counting_ on it.”


	2. A Show of Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If your dinner date's first entrance doesn't include an attempted stabbing, is it a real date?

Nettle didn’t know why everyone insisted on her dressing in costume. She was aware of the tradition of the Mad King Thorn’s games, of how he had been beheaded, somehow resurrected, and insisted upon making absolutely horrible puns during his annual returns to the living, which, if he were to try making any around her, would likely result in the pumpkin-crowned monarch getting another two or three eye-holes carved into his replacement noggin.

“You’re encouraging me to freely mingle in Lion’s Arch?” She arched a skeptical brow first at Myrie and then Sylfia. The former’s claim to have been blessed by her goddess of truth made for an interesting point, whereupon, if questioned outright, she would usually have no choice but to eventually tell the truth, regardless of the hilarious impracticality of it all. 

To her surprise, the thief was forthcoming the first time. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Really? That surprises me all the more, then. Tell me, sister, what is it that gives you and the others such great curiosity as to see me… what’s the phrase? ‘Flaunt my stuff’?”

Sylfia’s face soured, and Myrie grimaced, which only made the necromancer’s smile widen. “Please do not ever use that phrase again. I don’t know who taught it to you, but please do not.”

“Regardless, my question still stands; who benefits from this potential freedom of interaction, hm?”

Sylfia took another bracing swig from an ever-present ale mug. “Would you believe it may be you?”

Nettle blinked and rotated her companion-skull, Adam, in a pale, thin hand. “Me? You’ve rarely had any use for benefiting me, Sylfia.”

“Wasn’t always like that,” the warrior muttered. “‘Sides, it’s been a while. Maybe you’ve … Oi dunno, earned it.”

“Murder?”

“Not that. Can you please stop thinking of murder for five minutes?”

“I don’t usually think of murder; that was my point. I’m usually thinking of vivisection and haemomancy.”

The warrior sighed and set her wooden tankard down heavily on a nearby table. “Oi’ve been doing some research,” she slurred, and Nettle watched Myrie’s eyes cautiously slide from one to the other, “and Oi think… I may’ve found someone who shares your enthusiasm for bloodshed.”

Wrong words. Nettle’s teeth flashed in the baring that passed for a smile to the ignorant. “I don’t have an enthusiasm for _bloodshed_, you drunken oaf! I am passionate about how we can further our understanding of haemomancy; the fact that so many codes and restrictions are in place –!”

“_Regardless_ of the situation,” Myrie said hurriedly, “the character in question is someone who’s more up your alley of expertise than any one of ours. We figure you two start talking, see if you have anything in common, and… who knows.” She looked almost-hopefully at the pale-skinned sylvari. “Maybe something strange’ll happen. It’s Halloween, after all.”

The necromancer felt a curiosity run through her brain like fingers through a book’s pages. “Very well,” she finally sighed. “Let’s see how this mystery date goes. ”

Nettle had only agreed to arrive in the containment field after getting assurances from all parties involved that she would not a), be trapped within whatever dimension he was locked in, and b), she could see the costumes that Sylfia and Canach had picked out for each other. The warrior had initially refused, but a part of her seemed eager to assent to her sister’s request when it involved what she had picked out for the prickly engineer. It was thus that Myrie found herself walking alongside the others dressed as a member of the Lunatic Court with Sylfia garbed in a regal norn battle-armor and Canach, very, very angrily fuming in an oversized choya costume.

“It suits you,” Nettle had quipped, pointing out the costume’s barrel-shaped, spiky roundness and ignoring the audible grinding of his teeth from behind its goggling glass eyes. 

The spined sylvari’s face was flushed about five different shades of lavender. “When we were picking out costumes, _Fireball_,” he said evenly, turning with hilarious slowness to peer out at Sylfia from beneath its shadow, “I was under the impression that we would be a matching set.”

Sylfia’s grin lit up the entire room. “Oi never said that. Who gave you that idea? Besides, Oi like it this way. I look amazing!”

Despite himself, Canach couldn’t keep the warmth from his voice. “Yes, kimchi, I know you do. That’s why I picked it. Because I thought you would look nice in it.”

“Awww.”

“_And because I thought that you would buy me one to match.”   
_

The warrior sighed and looked down at him. “Cactus, if you want, I can remove your costume later. I daresay you’d wear the plate better than I do – and I did actually get you one to match.”

He made a brief choking, spluttering noise while Sylfia cackled. Nettle and Myrie were in agreement for one shining moment in history when they both rolled their eyes at the display.

“Please stab me if I act like that,” the necomrancer sighed, pouting back at the two. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” came a cheery voice; the sylvari and human half-jumped and looked down. "You’ll likely get stabbed by him first.” A blue-dressed Magister of the Priory beamed, dark brown skin glowing in the ethereal golden light of….

“Is that _candy corn?_” Nettle’s wide green eyes were fixed on the sugary substance. “What manner of…?”

The asura cleared her throat. “Pleased to meet you, yes, I’m sure. I’m Magister Tassi of the Durmand Priory, one of the head researchers of the Thorn family and the reason we are all gathered here today!”

Nettle’s eyes had returned to the half-amused, possibly-going-to-murder-you expression Myrie had learned to associate with running in the opposite direction. “Really, Myrie? The _Thorn_ family?”

“I’m not trying to set you up with the Mad King,” she squeaked hurriedly. She hated how the necromancer’s face went positively catlike at the noise and cleared her throat. “Tell me, have you ever heard of Prince Edrick the Bloody?”

A few minutes later, Nettle sat in an ebony chair surrounded by a delicious array of bloodstones, a fascinating assortment of bones, and not a single scent particle of candy corn. That, she remembered the magister explaining, was effective repellent towards the younger would-be-monarch, and seeing and smelling any hint of the stuff was usually enough to bar the ghost’s presence for days. Not that she could blame him. She frowned as she rubbed sticky residue from her fingertips and popped one in her mouth. Ugh. It tasted like Khimma’s horrible optimism.

There was a low, rattling noise from across the black stone table. Nettle sat up and placed her hands in her lap. 

I wonder if he’s really been sealed in that box, she mused. I wonder if he was dismembered when they put him inside. 

She then proceeded to marvel at the potential appearance of the prince – not in the way that Llumin would for her beloved Marshal, thorns blight the thought, but in a very scientific way. Ghosts had been her subject of expertise for much of her time in the schools of necromancy before her Hunt had manifested itself in more bloody methods. Would he be mostly-sane, like those specters caught before the madness of the Foefire in Ascalon? Would he be tangible? Perhaps he would look like a sheet; like what those round little quaggan children wore outside, cooing and booing and looking like little sugary cake-pops without the sticks.

Despite herself, Nettle felt her mouth water. She could positively kill for a cake pop. Or a quaggan. Her guildmates never needed to know about her secret obsession with the smoked whale-like creatures. Where was her train of thought again?

The box across the table gave another mighty groan; it was about twice as tall as an average human’s coffin, and engraved with dark silver-and-red symbols. Something about a curse and about how his name was to be struck from history forevermore. Nettle heard her skull, Adam, give a hissing warning only moments too late. 

An almighty howl of rage and fury burst from the stone box. Nettle reached up on pure instinct and parried the knife that lunged at her throat from within its depths and stood, assuming a defensive stance as whoever – _whatever – _was in that thing grew more solid, shouting curses and promises of pain and blood and –

“Oh, for the Pale Tree’s sake, _shut up!” _she snapped, and reached with a single hand to block and grab the arm that once more stabbed at her. This did not work as effectively as she would have liked, as the creature instead twisted her around and threw his arms around her neck. Her eyes widened and her lips curled. If this prince thought he could merely choke her to death, well, he’d have another thing coming. A swift elbow and wriggle freed her from his grasp. She whirled around, nostrils flaring. “Is that how you were taught to greet your betters?”

She finally had a decent look at her assailant. There was no doubt as to his tangibility, that was certain. Skin pale as the moon glowed in the chamber’s light, covering a narrow human face painted with a stylized version of the mad grin that even now scored its way across Tyria’s own lunar surface above them. A single mop of dark hair, shaved into a severe mohawk, crowned the head of the young man whose golden eyes were anything _but _apologetic as he glowered down at her from within his archaic, sumptuous robes.

“Betters?” he spat. “_Betters?” _His eyes began to glow again with crimson fury. “I am a prince, you sniveling, worthless leek! How dare you even assume that –!”

“Before today, I had no idea who you were,” Nettle said calmly, holding up a hand. “The only reason I agreed to come is to satisfy my own curiosity. Now, if we can start again on the right foot…”

The Bloody Prince rarely looked so dumbfounded in his artistic renditions, she thought. The light slowly faded from his eyes.

“You… have no idea who I am,” he echoed, and suddenly sounded much smaller than the incarnation of rage that had burst murderously from his containing box.

“Would you like to sit down? I’m sure it’s been a while.”

Skeptical eyes glared at her from beneath dark brows as the ghost hovered back and settled into a tall chair. “This isn’t a joke, is it?”

She rotated her dagger casually in her hand. “I’ve just failed to be killed by who I was led to believe may have been one of Tyria’s most feared ghosts. If anything, no I am not joking, and I am slightly disappointed in you, Eddie.”

The rage returned, along with a delightful surge of necromantic power. “It’s _Edrick! Edrick the Bloody! _Did my father put you up to this?”

Finally a point in common. “Please. I hate pumpkins. You really think I’d be here under the order of that orange buffoon?”

“You’ve never met him,” he scoffed. His brow furrowed. “Well, if what he boasts about is true, actually, nearly everyone’s met him. He always mocks me in the Labyrinth for my relative obscurity. But no, I would not have been surprised. You’re a sylvari. A plant.”

Now it was her turn to get annoyed. “A _plant.”   
_

“Well, you are. I don’t know! Why am I here?” He sat heavily in the chair opposite from her on the end of the long table. “Please tell me you brought food.”

“Food?”

He gestured to his frame. “You might not be able to tell beneath these rotting velvets, but my dearly departed father thought it was a hilarious idea to stuff me in a box with a mouth full of candy corn before he left me to die. The only definition these muscles have is atrophy. Yes, I assume you have food, and I assume it isn’t that horrible yellow _stuff_, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, and I would assume that someone outside this little dining-set wouldn’t like that much. I’m _starving.”   
_

She didn’t quite like how he seemed to be returning to the idea of her plantiness as a potential food, and removed a satchel from her side with extravagant slowness. 

“You’re the first ghost I’ve heard of who needs _food_ to be summoned properly,” she said casually. She set down a spectrally-treated roast dolyak rib, two goblets of dark wine, and a steamed set of… Her eyebrows rose. 

Funny, Lyca, she thought, and gingerly placed the dish of cabbage on the table.

The prince hardly gave her a second look as he pounced with unnatural speed upon the dolyak. Nettle watched with stunned amusement as he proceeded to rip away part of it and strip the meat from the bone in a few minutes’ time before he turned his attention to the goblets.

“One of those is mine, you know,” she said casually. He raised his eyes from the ruby depths to stare more fully at her. A slow smirk carved its way across his painted features. 

“Of course, my apologies,” he said slowly, and settled back easily into his chair. His leg dangled casually over the side. “You’ll forgive my manners,” he said, and she could have believed it if not for the expression on his face. “It has been a while since I’ve had a proper meal.”

“If you need any vegetables, you’ll be happy to know that I am not on the list,” she said dryly. He gave a childish pout.

“We never did answer the reason as to why you’re here, did we?” he said.

“We never had a proper introduction. You tried to stab me before I even had the thought to say ‘hello.’“

“Oh, I apologize; in my father’s household, that could be one of many ways he decided to greet you.” Edrick’s lip curled as he adopted a falsely-imperial tone. “Oh, hello, _Eddie_, lovely to see you, _Eddie, _catch the knife with your face and play a game with Daddy, _Eddie…” _The bony hand that clutched his dagger twisted murderously into his remnants of roasted rib. “Really, why anyone chose to stay with him will never fail to befuddle me…”

Nettle sighed and rolled her eyes. She was beginning to see Sylfia’s attraction to the bottom of her cups. “Well, regardless, in the modern, living world where it is semi-civilized, we don’t usually greet our companions with knives. So let us start again.” She took a drink and licked a drop that lingered on her lip. “My name is Nettle Viridia, chief haemomancer for the Knights of Gryphon and somewhat of a black-box deniable asset for the Order of Whispers’ really nasty operations.”

“Charmed,” he said, and made no motion to rise from his chair. Nettle raised a brow and removed another dish from her pack.

“You may have this,” she said, gesturing to a beautifully-roasted fillet of salmon, “once you rise, bow, and introduce yourself politely, as befits a prince.”

His hungry eyes tore from the fish and into her. “And what’s to say I don’t just come over there and take it from you, Nettle Viridia of the Knights of Gryphon?”

She had nearly hoped he would ask. “I have candy corn.”

Never before had she seen a grown man’s eyes widen in terror at the mention of the sugary substance. The hilarity could be addictive.

“You wouldn’t!”

“I might. Now, introduce yourself.” She slid the dish a few inches further down the table. “Please.”

A small war waged in the arrogant eyes of the prince. His lips twisted and he ran his hand through the black mop that stood atop his head.

“I’ll do what you ask but make it brief, and give you the favor of skipping the thousand disgusting titles my father insisted on bestowing upon me at every potential introduction. I am Prince Edrick Thorn, better preferred as Edrick the Bloody, son of King Thorn himself, who should have known better than to expect anything but silence from his son when he got tired of his threat and stuffed him in a box for his troubles.”

Nettle smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” She slid the fish down towards him and watched him tuck eagerly into it. She cut off a small part she had saved for herself and chewed. “You know, it’s not every day you hear a man bite out the tongue of his guards to keep them silent.”

Most dinner companions would have choked at the change in topic. He merely raised a brow and swallowed. “Obviously it didn’t work as well, otherwise I’d have chewed through their necks, too.”

“I was merely fascinated that you had the drive to do it. It’s a very chewy muscle,” she remarked.

He watched her in wary confusion. “Are all sylvari like you?”

“Hardly.” A pert smile curved her lips. She took another drink and offered him the wineskin to refill his own cup. “You know, if you think about it, it’s sending a message of ferocity and tenacity to do what you did. If I’d heard of the deed, I think I’d have been compelled to join your little revolution.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but then, now knowing that it didn’t work, perhaps not.” She ignored the audible hiss of frustration at her comment and took a slice of cabbage. 

He lunged more than halfway across the table. His knife sunk heavily into the stone by her hand. She raised a brow and looked from it to him and back to the vegetable. “You could always ask.”

“Cabbage. Please.”

She beamed as she slipped him a piece. “And the knifework – that was something I didn’t expect. Most renditions that had been found only display you with your staff,” she said, gesturing to the twisted wooden branch that he stowed behind his chair. “Did you learn bladework yourself?”

He did not blink as he chewed. “Yes.” He swallowed and raised his goblet to his lips again. “Usually it ended up with a body at the end of it.”

“Well, you can’t be too hard on yourself; Adam warned me in advance, and you’re not quite in shape.” She gave him a meaningful look, which he returned with advanced sourness. “I do have to say, you’re looking much better now.”

“Having food that isn’t candy corn does wonders for your body,” he said dryly.

They ate for a few minutes in silence. 

“I’m quite fascinated with you, really,” Nettle finally commented. Both brows rose on the ghostly prince’s face. “Not quite like that,” she said quickly. She was surprised at the “quite” that had slipped its way in there, and cleared her throat. “Not quite,” she reaffirmed, and briefly shook her head in annoyance. “What I want to know is, how did you manage to get _back?”  
_

He blinked, as if the answer was obvious. “Spite.”

“What for? Surely that’s not the only reason, otherwise there’d be significantly more ghosts fuming around.”

“You’ve clearly never endured the amount of rage required to _instill _this much spite,” he said pointedly. “And from what I understand, there was a lot more magic floating around in my time. Maybe it’s something that was only able to be done in the past.”

She watched him casually as he reached for another piece of dolyak. “What if I was to tell you that we could possibly kill your father?”

He dropped his knife and laughed. He really did, as if she wasn’t completely serious about the whole endeavor. 

“I’ve _tried_,” he said, regaining his composure and speaking as if to a small child. “Many, many times.”

“And yet you’ve failed, because the very thing binding you to him keeps both of you alive.” 

Edrick picked up his knife, twirled it in his fingers, and gave her a curious look. 

“Blood magic,” she sang, and waggled her hands in the air. “You’re still tangible enough to have some of it in you, and as long as you do, in many ways, you’re still bound to him.”

“Are you suggesting,” he said slowly, curling his knife back into his fist, “that you kill me again in order to kill my father?”

“Only temporarily,” she said cheerily, and let her free hand rest on Adam. “Besides, you’re technically both more than halfway there. My skull gives me all sorts of lovely ideas. He always has. What I’m suggesting is that we do a simple transfer. I’ll free you from your father. This will allow you to both roam more freely and quite possibly kill him. Depending on the circumstances, you may even get to kill him multiple times. You’ll be no longer bound to that box, and the Labyrinth may be more open to… different management.”

His eyes seemed very wide and very dark as they stared at her. “And what’s in it for you?”

She sighed. “And here we are at the part where I show my binding.” She stood and turned, lifting the wide, curved leaves from the base of her neck. “When I free you,” she said, and saw him move behind her from the corners of her eyes, “my own seal will weaken. As of now, we are in similar predicaments. We cannot fully move nor act as we wish, having been bound to the wishes and whims of others.” His dark sleeve fell slightly from his hand as he raised it. “Should this work, we may at the very least be a bit freer from where we are now. Is there anything else you would like to say?” She couldn’t stop herself from flinching slightly at the cold pressure that ran down the back of her neck and paused at the scarred mark. 

“Your skin is surprisingly smooth,” she heard him murmur.

“Well, yours is cold,” she said hurriedly, and gave a light cough. What on _earth_ must have been in the air? She forcefully ignored Adam’s dry cackling in her mind as she turned to face the ghost. “What is your opinion on the manner? Are you willing to take the risk?”

Prince Edrick the Bloody lingered a moment longer in her space. Part of her wanted to stab him for it. She wanted to stab the part of her that didn’t. Finally, he stepped back, and a long, slow smile spread over his ghastly features.

“I will be, I think,” he said. He casually took her cup and raised it to his lips. “Meet me again tomorrow, Miss Viridia.” He set it back down and turned back towards his box. The lid raised itself easily for him as he stepped one foot inside. “By then, my strength will also be at its height while my father will be wicked this way coming, and I think it’s about time for another family visit…”


	3. A Royal Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween's arrival brings the solidification of a mad plan and the arrival of the Pumpkin-headed Monarch himself. Chaos, understandably, ensues.

“You can’t possibly keep us in the dark forever,” Myrie huffed, glaring at the necromancer. She turned to rummage in what was surely her fifth bag of gathered sweets.

“I could,” Nettle said, “especially considering the fact that the date was to be a private affair, assuming one or both parties survived.”

Myrie nearly choked on a piece of candy corn she popped into her mouth. “_What?”  
_

“Oh, didn’t I mention? He tried to stab me before he even said ‘hello.’ Really quite rude. I’d expect better manners from a prince.”

The thief rubbed her watering green eyes. “Yeah, okay, so I don’t think anyone was thinking there would be any murder in there…”

Nettle raised a brow. “He is called the _Bloody _Prince. If he didn’t try to kill me, I would have been disappointed.” 

“_You _would.”

“So, give us the details!” Sylfia staggered from around a corner and slung an arm around Nettle’s shoulders. The pale-skinned sylvari’s nose wrinkled. “Was he a rotting corpse? A festering specter o’ doom and gloom? Was he insane?”

The necromancer gingerly removed the warrior’s hand. “I suppose, from a purely scientific perspective, that he doesn’t look too bad.” She pursed her lips. “Especially considering the circumstances. He’s very pale and insists upon wearing his hair in a ridiculous mohawk. His facepaint is a bit strange, but some may consider him handsome if in the right light. He claimed to be emaciated beneath his robes, which were decent condition, but I can assure you that had no bearing on his strength….”

Sylfia’s eyes widened. “Why, what’s this? If Oi didn’t know any better, I’d almost say you _fancy ‘_im!”

“You _said_ to give the details. I was merely elaborating.”

“Ah, of course.” Sylfia nodded sagely and leaned to the left. Canach reached out a single finger and pushed her back upright.

“Does one always flush when one ‘merely gives the details’?” he smirked. Sylfia threw her head back with a laugh. 

“See, even Cactus knows you like him!”

“I liked it better when you were dressed as a choya,” the necromancer muttered, turning her glare to him. She closed her eyes and sighed, composing herself. “We’ve made plans to meet again, this is true,” she continued, "but to say that one likes him after a single meeting is hasty.”

“Good thing you’re doing it again, then,” Sylfia snickered. She protested as Canach took the vial of absinthe from her hand and tipped it into his own mouth, having declared that she had had enough. 

“It was a _business transaction,” _the necromancer said, staring first from one to the other with visible impatience. “We have an agreement. A _meeting_.”

Myrie grinned. “A date.”

“Yes. In fact, he said he would attempt to meet me today in public.”

Myrie’s casual stance immediately went rigid. “_Today?!”  
_

“Myrie, do remember to breathe, otherwise someone might mistake you for a corpse.”

“I am panicking for _perfectly valid reasons_,” the thief said. “Sylfia, this was your harebrained idea, so I am blaming you if everyone dies!”

“Actually,” the necromancer said calmly, “You may be surprised to know, but we have both made an agreement to only murder one person, if possible.” The thief’s eye twitched.

“Fantastic; who’s the unfortunate?”

There was a low rumble and a crackle of thunder overhead. The party turned to watch as a swirl of autumnal colors descended from the sky, darkening as it reached the ground. The shadowy tornado whirled into a single, finger-like point within the center of the Lion’s Arch Plaza, billowing and howling with riotous bursts of oranges and blacks and flame until it finally spiraled away, coalescing into a towering, pumpkin-headed madman. The Mad King lifted his blazing face to the sky and gave a booming laugh as he straightened, bony hands raised.

“Gather ‘round, my subjects! Your Mad King has returned!”

Myrie slowly turned to Nettle, who was staring at the Mad Monarch with an expression of catlike glee. _“No.”_

_ _

“It’s a simple matter of transferal,” Nettle said cheerily. “I get a bit of blood from the prince, temporarily kill him, kill the king, and add a little more equilibrium to the autumnal festivities within the Mad Realm. It’s not as though he hasn’t been dead before. Technically both of them have, so really, this operation should be a cinch.”

Myrie gave her another sidelong look. The sylvari had changed into an actual costume, and she wasn’t quite used to it. It wasn’t that it didn’t suit her; the blood-red corset perfectly accented her slender form and matched wonderfully with both the ruby at her neck and the bloodstone dagger in her hand. “Are you sure you’ll be able to fight in that?”

The sylvari raised her chin. “Myrie, never underestimate a woman who can run in heels.”

“You can _run_ in those things?!”

She smiled and twirled her dagger. “I can do a great many things in costume. The face is the greatest mask of all.”

“Great. So, where’s His Royal Bloodiness supposed to be meeting you? I don’t quite see him having the same level of dramatic entrance as – “

Nettle shot her hand out and caught the human in the stomach. The thief wheezed and staggered back as a gout of searing black flame erupted mere inches from her nose. A scent like burned sugar, acid, and iron cracked through the air with an earsplitting shriek, and two pitted iron chains lashed out from the dark flame and buried themselves into the ground before a pale, grasping hand lurched from the blazing depths.

“Oh, he’s here,” Nettle trilled, gently pushing aside a very shocked Myrie and stepping forward. “Pardon me, will you?”

The thief watched in dumbfounded horror as Nettle daintily reached towards the grasping hand, planted both heels firmly in the ground, and yanked the rest of Prince Edrick the Bloody from whatever hellish portal he had previously occupied. She casually dusted her small hands on the black leather of her studded cage-skirt and beamed.

“Remember your manners,” she said.

The dark mop of tousled hair rose, revealing a sneer carved into his thin, painted lips. “You’re late.”

Myrie’s tongue caught up with her before her brain did. “Is the grinning corpse-paint an homage to his father, or –?”

Nettle flung herself front of Myrie before the thief could register the fact that the prince had very nearly stabbed her.

“Now, now, darling,” she said calmly, crossing their daggers and somehow managing to hold back the towering, seething ghost, “she isn’t quite as well-versed on your little patriarchal history as I am; you can’t just stab her. We agreed to focus our efforts, didn’t we?”

A faint, iron-scented crackle snapped through the air. “She dared to compare myself to that _maniac_ on the day where he flaunts his own power! He who struck my name from history! As if I would ever dare to paint myself in honor of him,” he snarled, glaring at the thief.

Myrie’s skin prickled as she scooted away; a bead of sweat trickled down her neck. “Um. My apologies?”

A bloodred light flashed from his eyes. “Were I king, I would tear you limb from limb for your impudence!”

Nettle’s pleasant voice had slipped into a deadly purr. “Well, Edrick, you can’t be king if the current monarch yet lives, can we? Now, how about we remember our agreement and put your knife away, if you would be so kind.”

The thief looked from one maniac to the other. Her eyes widened. “You’re _matching.”   
_

“A purely tactical coincidence, I assure you,” Nettle said. Despite herself, Myrie could have sworn that the pale green that glowed through her veins flushed a bit brighter.

Edrick’s brows rose as he finally looked at her outfit. “It suits you much better than what you first wore.”

“You only like it because it’s modeled after yours. You may be surprised to know that you do have some enthusiasts among the living.”

“So…. is this the part where I stab you for acting funny?” Myrie couldn’t help herself.

Edrick whirled around and spun to face her, and Nettle quickly straightened.

“Unless you’re planning on murdering my father for me and enacting the ritual that might give me a bit more freedom, no,” he said. His teeth were too sharp for the thief’s liking. “You may not, _peasant_.”

“All right! Noted!” Myrie threw her hands in the air and slowly backed away. “So, if I’m not needed?”

“You’re not. It may be better for you if you go entertain our Mad Monarch,” Nettle said. Her eyes widened, and she smiled. “Actually, if you could deliver a message….”

It was a good day to be king. It was, in the mind of the Mad Monarch, always a good day to be king. It would have been better if there was more bloodshed, though, and a lot more laughter. And candy corn. He loved the stuff.

However, when he had been decapitated, whoever was in charge of assigning him a head for the afterlife had _not_ followed through with his express orders of giving him back his original capital and had instead bestowed upon him a carved pumpkin. This not only effectively doomed him from ever fully enjoying candy corn again, but it gave him all the more reason to invent wonderful, pumpkin-themed jokes. Everyone had laughed at them when he was alive. That they had the choice of either laughing or dying made no difference 

It was a gift, really; a blessing and a curse. He sighed wistfully as he looked down at the gathering throng of people below him, all ready and willing to participate in the now slightly-altered ritual of Mad King Says. No more could he outright kill those who didn’t play according to the rules, but the popularity of the contest remained. Even now he saw among the various ghosts and specters replicas of his own flaming head, donned by adoring fans and pun enthusiasts alike. He puffed up his regal, skeletal chest and prepared to give another introductory speech.

“My loyal subjects! Long I know it has been since we last met. There have been some difficulties, I know, but fear not! As I have done in the past, I will do now, and return every Halloween to grace you with my regal presence.” He beamed benevolently down at the gathering. “This is the part,” he said slowly, “where you bow.”

Some poor fools immediately took to the suggestion. 

The King cackled and then proceeded to nearly kill them for their idiocy. “I did not say ‘Mad King Says!’”

“Hey! I’ve got a message for you!”

The twin flames that made up the Pumpkin King’s eyes widened. This was, by far, the largest breach of rules ever made. “No, you don’t quite understand how this works, I think,” he said, looking around for the speaker. Confound it, a few centuries of absorbing magic had made him grow much taller than he once had been. He squinted. “How this works is – “

“It’s from your son.”

Ah, there she was. A short, human speaker, barely taller than his knee. The Mad King frowned and squatted, peering critically down at her.

“My son?” he echoed, ignoring the questions of his loyal fans for once. “That sniveling brat? I thought I sealed him in a box and left him to starve to death ages ago. Don’t tell me he failed at _that.”_

“I mean, he’s dead, same as you, I guess,” the human said under her breath. 

“No, not the same as me.” He pointed. “I have a pumpkin on my head. He does not. He has what looks like the bad side of a wolf taped to his scrawny scalp.”

“If I may, Your Highness? I really don’t know why they asked me to be their messenger – “

“Because you’re small and squishy and I probably could kill you if I got bored. I won’t!” He laughed. “For now. But continue, or I might change my mind.”

She had the credit to look annoyed. If he was still alive, the Mad King might have entertained thoughts of marrying her. “Your son has challenged your right to rule and is putting forth a champion by combat.”

This was too much. The Mad King rocked to his feet with a deafening guffaw. “That _miserable worm_ couldn’t contest my right foot! He didn’t do it in life, and he certainly won’t do it in death!”

“Then do you give up the challenge?”

A beautiful, slender sylvari stepped from the crowd. Her wide green eyes and gentle features stared up at him. He didn’t buy it for a single second.

“Oh, no, don’t tell me he’s finally _cracked,” _the Mad King groaned. “Since when does any son of mine send a leek to fight a pumpkin?”

“You are either going to acknowledge the gauntlet thrown down by your son, or I will consider it forfeit by ancient Krytan law.” She smiled prettily up at him. “It is your choice.”

He rolled his eyes. “And who would you be?”

She bowed, dagger flashing in the light of the Mad Moon.

“I am Nettle Viridia, champion of the Bloody Prince, and I challenge you to single combat on his behalf.”


	4. All Good Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody obeys the rules of the Mad Realm.

“This isn’t a guarantee.” Nettle crossed her ankles as she sat down and removed her dagger from the sheath at her side. She tested the blade against her thumb and licked away the golden stripe that rose to the cut. Across from her, the Bloody Prince refused to sit in the chair that she had pulled out for him. It was too small, he had claimed, and he wasn’t going to chance being stuck in that for the next two-and-a-half centuries if he could avoid it.

“You said it could happen!” He crossed his arms and glared at her.

“Could and will are two different things, Edrick,” she said flatly, raising a brow. “You know that. You _knew_ that, even before we’d agreed to this. For a man who once bit out the tongues of his guards, you certainly seem nervous now.”

“I’m not,” he seethed. He didn’t meet her gaze. “You will pardon me, though, if he idea of being killed again makes me uncomfortable.”

Nettle nearly laughed at the idea. “If it didn’t, I think someone would be doing something wrong.” The mark at the back of her neck crawled, and her smile dissolved. 

The Bloody Prince took his turn to smirk. “Now who’s the one getting cold feet?”

“You,” she said simply. “Considering you’re still dead.” 

He was watching her a little too closely for her liking. “You’re nervous about someone watching you,” he guessed. 

“It’s not nerves. It’s annoyance. My handlers try to keep an eye on me when possible, and you’re leaning in too close. I may have caused a few… diplomatic incidents… over the course of my career. Hopefully they’re overlooking this little indiscretion. Though I daresay you may have liked my work, based on my readings on your own exploits.”

He leaned back. “If this works, I’ll let you know myself.”

“If this works.” She glanced one more time at her book before she stood and stared at him with a critical eye. “I can’t stab you properly with those robes on.”

He crossed his arms. “I thought you said you were a professional.”

“I am,” she spat. “But it also doesn’t mean I want any physical interference with a delicate ritual. The future king of the Mad Realm can’t be expected to be taken seriously if he’s resurrected with a few velvet fibers permanently embedded in his chest. If you want this to work, you’ll allow me the clearest access to your heart.”

“I thought that old phrase said it was through the stomach.”

“No. Even in your case, the most direct path is through the thorax.” She smiled prettily. “Now disrobe so I can stab you.”

He muttered something that Adam refused to translate from Old Krytan and snickered. 

“Whatever you said can’t be nearly as funny as you think,” she said flatly. 

“How would you know?” He shimmied out of no fewer than three layers of velvet, leather, and silver before crossing his arms over his bare chest. Nettle mentally reviewed the scientific terms for the thin muscle groups that corded over him as she pried his arms away, squinted, and ran her fingers down his sides. Despite the fact that he had starved to death, among the living, he could have counted as extremely-lean; only one who knew his tale would have known otherwise. The prince gave a snort and twitched.

“While I understand the appeal of the situation, I’d rather you just get it over with and stab me.”

“Oh, are we ticklish? My apologies if you thought I was doing a routine admiration; I’m sensing where the concentration of blood magic is strongest in you, so if you’ll kindly shut up…”

She could have sworn there was a laugh he disguised as a cough as her finger dug into his side. “There’s got to be a quicker way to do this. My father was surprisingly quick to take on your challenge, which either means that he’s looking forward to fighting someone, or he’s planning on playing dirty.” He paused and frowned. “No, it’s both. He wants to defeat me and grind my name even further into the dirt than ever before. I’ll kill him for that.”

“Well, fortunately, I don’t plan on losing. This is for both of our freedoms, remember?”

“Yes, and how come this is still taking so long?”

Nettle raised her chin to glare at him. “Since you asked…” Her blade carved a thin line underneath his ribcage, curving up towards his sternum before she flicked the point away. Edrick’s fingers dug into her shoulders, teeth bared as she swiped a finger over the red line and into her mouth.

“What –?”

“Hold still.” 

He didn’t have the chance to ask why. With the point of magic now glowing in her mind like a beacon from his chest, the sylvari’s dagger slipped between his ribs and stole the breath from his lungs; his body convulsed as she held the blade in place for two, three, four seconds and removed it. Dark ichor dribbled down her arm as her free hand slipped a white-blue glowing powder over the wound and mixed it with the sap that oozed from her thumb, sealing it in a tarry substance. His eyes bulged as his lungs ineffectively gasped for air.

“You’re welcome,” she muttered, pushing him away and rubbing her bruised shoulders. “This will hurt more, but provide a quicker result. Thanks to that,” she said, and frowned as she pulled his shirt back over his dazed shoulders, “you have guaranteed that I will be the only one to face your dear murderous monarch.” She rolled the taste of his blood in her mouth. Rich earth, burned soil, the acrid taste of fear sang to her. He was right; the current of magic was stronger in the older human lines, and with the link she now had to him, she knew that she had one further point against the Mad King. Another, final note rose from the bouquet, and she laughed.

He clutched the stab wound and gave her a poisonous glare. “What now?”

“I could taste your final meal.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “Candy corn.”

He couldn’t disguise his shudder when he pulled his overcoat back on. “Go kill him now so I can murder him next time when he returns.”

“Hold on; I need your anchor over here. If something happens in the Mad Realm, I don’t want to be trapped there. I’ll kill him, then you can come over and claim your spot before sending me back and walking in your newfound freedom. We’ll need the realm to use me as a starting point in in case something changes at his death.” She held out her hand. “The wound on my thumb is still fresh.”

He looked from the appendage to her and raised an unimpressed brow. “And what do you want me to do with it?”

“Not kiss it, if that’s what you were thinking,” she said dryly. “Just swipe a drop of blood into your wounds or mouth. If you bite off my thumb, I’ll stab you again.”

He gave a savage smile. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” He pressed the wound to his lower lip. “Fight for our freedom. Your Mad King demands it.”

“I fight for no king.” She gave him a cryptic smile as she took back her hand. “But I will do what I must.”

The heavy door slammed behind her as she walked from Lion’s Arch and into the Mad Realm. Floating islands anchored with chains hovered in place as around them, the Mad Moon and distant Clocktower whirled like so much debris in the chaotic mind of its owner.

“Eddie!” The Mad King’s cackling bellow echoed throughout the realm, yet he was nowhere to be seen. “Eddie, where are you? Come on, say hello to your old man!”

Nettle gingerly stepped down from a chained island to one of the larger pieces of land. “He’s currently indisposed at the moment due to his impatience. You really do have a terrible sense of fashion,” she said dryly, and pointed to the whirling orange clouds that streaked across the black sky behind them.

The Mad King’s form whirled into being. His looming form obscured half the moon as he turned to stare down at her. “You’re not Eddie. I thought he said he had a champion…oh. Oh wait, that little lettuce was you. Ha! I thought he’d never have someone fight _for_ him! Well, now I feel bad.”

Nettle unsheathed her dagger and focus as she carefully stepped from the door-island to the one below. “Why’s that?”

Thorn pondered for a second. “Because I may or may not have omitted a teensy tiny detail about the fact that I’m not playing fair.” He cackled, and Nettle felt a distinct prickling sensation crackle throughout her body.

“You see, my dear little lettuce, in the Mad Realm, the Mad King is, by nature, its ruler. And what I say goes! So!” The light from his burning head cast ghastly shadows on the ground.

An assortment of strange minions – plastic spiders, candy corn elementals, glow-in-the-dark skeletons – burst from the ground to surround her.

“Your Mad King says…. _COWER!”   
_

The battle was like nothing Nettle had ever experienced, and she hoped never to do so again. She would fight against waves of minions while the Mad King taunted her in the distance. All the while, she had to carefully keep an ear open; at a moment’s notice, the Mad Monarch could grow bored and demand she follow the prompts of his insane “Mad King Says.” It wouldn’t have been so bad, she assumed, if it wasn’t for the fact that trying to keep the orders straight was so very difficult to do when a stone gargoyle was attempting to remove her liver, or when a sudden jolt of sugar from a candy corn elemental made her slip from performing the proper action into something completely different. Pride refused to let her die in such ridiculous circumstances.

Ignoring the Mad King’s game was out of the question. She had tried it once or twice when the clawing, clattering hordes of strange enemies were too much to allow it to be followed. The resulting punishment felt entirely too much like death to be enjoyable, and during those moments she could hear the infuriated gnashing of the young man who had died locked in a box so many centuries ago shrieking for his revenge. 

“Edrick, while I understand your enthusiasm for dismemberment,” she muttered angrily, “at the current moment, it is not _helpful_, and I would prefer silence unless it is absolutely necessary or useful!”

The Mad King had finally stepped among his lackeys and fought against Nettle. Her strikes were nearly ineffective against the towering ghoul, who continued to mock her.

“You’re a plant, right?” he said, and Nettle’s hackles prickled. “Would you say this is the right _field_ for you? Is your comprehension a bit _patchy_?”

“He’s fond of pumpkin-bombs,” she heard the Bloody Prince hiss in her ear. Faint, red glowing circles surrounded what would otherwise have been passed over as ordinary fruit lying on the ground. She easily dodged the orange mines, which exploded in gooey chunks of squash as she sidestepped them.

“Oh, come on, I _sense_ you there, Eddie, what did you tell her?” the king fumed. He threw his glowing shield, forcing the pale necromancer to drop to the ground as it screamed over her head. “You’re not fighting fair, you sniveling coward!”

“You won’t be able to call me a coward when I’m done ripping your tongue out through your nose!” he screamed.

Nettle winced. “I’m the only one who can hear you, Edrick,” she seethed. “Don’t let him taunt you.”

The pumpkin-head turned with a sneer. “Oh, _Edrick_, is it? You always wanted _me _to call you Edrick the Bloody, full title and all! If you were so desperate for a girlfriend, you could always have kidnapped one. That’s what I did with your mother, you know, before I killed her.” The Mad King’s sword cleft like the horizon towards Nettle’s head. Her eyes widened; she barely rolled out of the way as it left flaming furrows where it landed. “Of course, she was a thin, waifish little thing, so there wasn’t much left to kill,” he shrugged. “Just like you!”

The rage that stormed through Nettle’s connection was blinding. “Your Majesty, I will need you to calm down your royal annoyance,” she hissed. Her wrist twisted as she rolled behind the Mad King and stabbed, ripping a dark line through his leg. The Mad King gave a shout; she couldn’t tell whether it was gleeful or pained, and he disappeared in a swirling cloud of embers and smoke. “Where did he go?”

“He’s not dead yet. Go down.”

Her eyes bulged at the swirling sea of ghosts and miasma that simmered below. “Down?!”

“Did I stutter, you insolent weed? I have been trapped in here with him for centuries in my box, and as much as it goes against all reason, you will need to go down, so _calculate _where you need to go and jump!”

“Call me a weed again at your own peril,” she snapped, and looked uncertainly towards the path. The island where she once fought was one of many layers; smaller ones floated like drunken staircases between the larger segments of land. None of the falls to get to the Mad King’s hiding spot would be painless.

“There!” A chain’s glow brightened. “Don’t trip and you may be able to reach him with your wits about you.”

The necromancer crouched and hurtled off of one small island to another, wincing at the soft cracks and the bruises she felt pooling beneath her skin. 

“I didn’t know trees could jump,” the Mad King quipped when she finally landed. 

Despite herself, Nettle smiled. His stance was a bit wider, and the greatblade in his hand listed to the side more than it had in the beginning. “You’ll find a lot of things that trees can do, Your Majesty,” she purred. “For example,” she said, “this one is able to kill a king.”

The quips slowed; the jokes became more cruel. The games of “Mad King Says” weren’t invoked at all, bringing the atmosphere to a more bearable level. Still Nettle fought, ripping through plastic and bone and blood and candy with single-minded determination until she finally positioned herself and stood near eye level with the flaming head of the Mad Monarch himself. Nettle’s eyelids fluttered as she reached back into her memory to the magic of the Thorn bloodline. The connection was just enough to let her see where the Mad King’s highest concentration of blood magic was. Her dagger rotated in her hand as she launched herself onto the Mad King’s skeletal chest. Her aim struck true, and the sharpened bloodstone blade pared easily through leather and metal and bone. She heard the pumpkin-head give a _whooph_, as if all the air had been struck from his body with all the surprise it never expected to feel. Still Nettle held on, grabbing his collar with her teeth and shoving the blade in further. Hot, tar-like blood streamed down her arm, smelling of burned pumpkin and molten stone. Finally, finally, the Mad King fell heavily onto his back.

Nettle's jaws clacked against each other as he landed, and she winced as blood trickled over her tongue. She ran her gore-stained blade across her lips, forging another connection between the Bloody Prince and the Mad King and opening a connection to the realm. Below her, the Mad Monarch’s body disappeared. “I think he’s finally dead,” she whispered. “Do you feel anything?”

There was a distant creaking; a door opened from far above. Nettle’s eyes widened as the painted face of Edrick the Bloody loomed over her triumphantly.

“Well, you’re a bit taller,” she said.

His shadow nearly obscured half of the swirling Mad Moon as he stepped through, reminding her too much of his patriarch’s own stature. “Freer, too,” he said, and threw back his head with a laugh. “When he re-forms, I’ll tell him how much I missed fighting him with my own knives.”

She stood and smiled up at him as she brushed grave-dust from her robes. “How does it feel, being king?”

“Strange,” he said simply. “I… never really thought I could get that far. It’s all thanks to you,” he laughed. “Now, let’s get you –”

A loud, bellowing yawn interrupted their conversation. Nettle felt her blood turn to ice.

“Mmm, no, you’re still stuck here, Eddie,” the Mad King drawled. “And I’m still the king. Oh, what, you didn’t honestly think a little blood ritual and the whole ‘kill your father to be free’ bit hadn’t been thought of before? Please; you’re more predictable than your murderous tantrums. Should I find some peasants for you to dismember before you try another failed coup?” 

Edrick’s face went gray. “You maniac, where are you?”

There was an echoing laugh. “Here. And there. And waaaay over there. I had a lot of enemies and got buried in a lot of places, my boy; killing the metaphysical part of me won’t do _squat_.” He gave a hum. “But I do have to admit, that sylvari and her little skull might have actually done something. I feel a bit more… human! Whatever shall I do? I may just have to be sane for a whole second!” His voice took on a murderous snarl. “Before my body re-forms and I flay both of you alive! I can’t feel my legs! Or see them._”_

The Bloody Prince turned to look down at her, eyes flickering with a dozen half-formed thoughts. “You don’t want to be trapped in here with this maniac. Let me try to let you out. If I concentrate –”

“Let me try to let you out with our little ritual,” the Mad King’s voice mocked. “It’s not like we actually thought this through or anything. Please don’t be mad at me, little sylvari, I didn’t mean to get you trapped, oh….!” He laughed again. “Oh, this is rich. You always were a whiny little brat, Eddie. So emotional over a little fern; is this really the son I raised? You really needed more friends.”

For once in his life, Edrick ignored his father’s taunts. Five different, desperate emotions flashed across his face. “There’s a chance you could get out,” he said quickly. “Take it while you can.”

“How?”

His lips twisted. “You said it yourself; your land calls and binds itself to you as much as this land to me. It wants you back there as much as this land refuses to let me freely leave. My father’s power will allow me to throw you back into balance for a moment to return you, but I don’t know how much time I’ll have before he re-forms. Go through while you can.” 

He drew his staff and concentrated; a floating door appeared in front of Nettle on a step of crimson flame. Tendrils of shadow coiled from behind it, yet despite its forbidding appearance, she could smell the fresh air of Tyria beyond. The necromancer hesitated. She looked up at the Bloody Prince and his glowing eyes and supposed that, even in the wrong light, he could look handsome.

“Thank you,” he said, almost too quiet for her to hear.

Nettle blinked. “I’m sorry it didn’t work,” she replied, and stepped through. There was an echoing laugh, and the world swirled into shadow.

She woke up in a hay bale. The fortunate part was that it was clean and not on fire. The unfortunate part was she knew of nowhere near the Lion’s Plaza that had hay bales. She sat up and winced at a pain in her chest. She carefully opened up her corset and moved it aside; a faint curving line from the underside of her ribcage to her sternum glowed as it healed, darkening thickly by where her heart would have been were she human. She grimaced and lowered herself down, running her hand gently over the wound. 

It was a stupid ritual to perform, she told herself. Sylvari and ancient spectral human bloodlines were never meant to mix. The theory was what had enthralled her; the promise of knowledge had drawn her in. What did she earn for it? She raised her hand to the nape of her neck out of habit.

And paused. 

Her thumb slowly drew over a faint mark, still there, but weak. Her eyes widened and her breath caught. A stirring in her conscious, like a knock upon a door, echoed.

_Well, look who finally woke up.__   
_

Despite herself, the necromancer’s eyes roamed around the hayloft. “Where are you?”

_Here, yet not here. Back in the Mad Realm. When you were deposited back in the proper land of Tyria, everything else here went even more insane than usual. It’s really quite delightful.   
_

She sat up as Edrick’s voice echoed through her head over the faint cacophony of that twisted place. “You idiot, what are you doing?”

_Giving Father a little vengeance. _There was a childish glee to his voice. _I’ve already rearranged his favorite novels and given three of them to the Viscount of Candy Corn. By the time he returns fully to the Realm, everything will be an illegible mess. My rebel lunatics are terrorizing the local visitors from above, and I’ve just set free his stupid invisible pony, Mr. Gumdrops, to roam around the lich. I hope it likes pony meat; I always hated that swaybacked haystack.  
_

She wasn’t sure why she was laughing. “Edrick the Bloody pranking his own father within his realm. My, my, what will happen next?”

There was a distant hum. _I was thinking dinner.   
_

“The starving boy thinks of food. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

_I was also planning on a demonstration of __the Thorn household’s knowledge on archaic magics and binding rituals. Unless, of course, the thought doesn’t appeal to you._

Nettle pursed her lips. “Only if there is candy corn.”

The violent oaths and murderous threats that echoed through her psyche were more than answer enough.

“You can’t leave the Realm, though, can you? That’s what we determined.”

_Actually, I might. The door I opened wasn’t entirely based on my father’s power. With your help, and if you avoid any of that …. disgusting slop… my powers might be strong enough to visit in some in-between place every full moon.  
_

Nettle’s brows rose. “You must have a very high opinion of yourself to think I’d want to see you that often.”

_Only with your permission, _he said.

The sylvari shook her head in bewilderment. “Did I just hear the Bloody Prince use manners?”

She could almost hear him grimace. _Don’t get used to it. _I’m _not used to it. Besides, I’ve always heard I’m most charming when I’ve nearly stabbed someone._

“I can agree with that.” She paused. “Now, do tell me you aren’t able to spy on me whenever you would like? I would hate to have to reverse the ritual on myself.”

_ I am only in your mind at your will, _came the reply. _Unlike my father, I’m trying to keep the one ally I have. But if you ever do have any ideas…. _Again that wicked grin flashed through her mind. _We could really terrorize him when you next come down here._

“A tempting thought,” she smiled. “But for now, I should try figuring out where you so gracelessly dumped me. Good-bye for now, Edrick.”

_So thankless, _he scoffed, and the connection faded with a faint shriek.

Nettle smiled and leaned back in the hay. “I really will have to thank Sylfia for the wonderful date.”


End file.
